


Stratocaster

by Peahen



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Afterlife, Downside
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-06-19
Updated: 2010-06-19
Packaged: 2017-10-10 04:34:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/95543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peahen/pseuds/Peahen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First I killed him; then I killed his dignity. Over and over and over again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stratocaster

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work in progress and may be edited to conform with future chapters when I write them.

Death offers a fresh perspective on any number of things.

He knew, for example, that he was moderately famous. It came as no surprise, in the abstract, to hear his name used as a byword for deductive proficiency. But the extent to which he has permeated the culture, even here where the trappings of living society are put off as much as possible, still trips him up for a moment here or there. He learns to speak of himself in the third person. He learns that when he claims that name for himself, it is seen as a daring affectation, although an appropriate one for his temperament.

^

"You're dead," says a voice that is very soft, very apologetic, and very American.

Squinting against the light, he opens his eyes. "So I gathered," he replies evenly. The bare white walls of the room in which he stands are utterly featureless, a trick he finds quite impressive, and glowing; in fact they are so undifferentiated that he has to locate the doorway by observing where the man's hand curls around the frame.

His own clothing is in exactly the mess he would have expected, given recent events, but perfectly dry. His companion, if that is the applicable term, is dressed in a simple white shirt and blue trousers of unfamiliar manufacture and holding two sheets of very fine paper. In the shadowless illumination of the room, it is difficult to pick out details.

"Um. I'm Edgar. Don't lose these," says the apologetic man, extending the papers. He glances at the front page as he accepts them. Three lines, imprinted by what must have been a brand new typewriter since the letters are absolutely free of irregularities.

`SHERLOCK HOLMES  
2385443281^2  
SIMON 01:28`

Well, that is distinctly uninformative.

^

He learns that some bloody idiot by the name of Doyle has convinced the public consciousness that he is a beanpole with an irrational abhorrence of the word 'guess'. He reads those stories, spending many a late night ensconced in some forgotten corner of the Grand Library's vast catacombs. In some places they are word-for-word reproductions of Watson's rather misty-eyed accounts; elsewhere they are word-for-word reproductions of one another, a fact which he finds terribly amusing, all the more so when he discovers that American publishers were responsible; sometimes they agree more closely with his own firsthand memories than with his recollection of Watson's case notes, and sometimes they bear little relation to either.

In his bleaker moments he is disquieted by the existence of stories which purport to take place after his encounter with Moriarty by the waterfall. It seems this Conan Doyle fellow was indecisive, having first got rid of Mr Sherlock Holmes and then brought him back to life afterward by popular demand. He wonders if perhaps he will wake up one day ensconced on a nonexistent ledge, observing Watson's futile search for his body. The idea is purest nonsense, of course.

^

"There you are, then," Edgar announces, tipping his head back to look up at the towering edifice in front of them. "Wow, you really were Sherlock Holmes, weren't you."

It takes him several weeks to understand that comment in full. In the moment, he merely agrees—a touch frostily, perhaps—that yes, indeed he was.

"You've got a big house," his guide explains, rather unnecessarily, in the same apologetic tone with which he has conducted this entire conversation. "It's what happens when, you know, you're mourned a whole lot."

Staring at the distant peak of his roof, Holmes is struck by a momentary pang of regret.

One of the first things he does is discover how to move somewhere much smaller. He does not appreciate the constant reminder of what—of whom—he left behind.

^

Were it not for a very respectable violin appearing among the daily influx of clutter into his modest home, he would find these endless days of idleness quite intolerable. There is no use whatsoever for a consulting detective in the bureaucratic anarchy of Downside. The temptation of an Epicurean existence, of a routine concerned primarily with the avoidance of suffering, is powerful; particularly, it must be said, since the suffering to be avoided is powerful in its own right.

It is this last which turns him down the path toward the institution called the Crescent; some latent nobility, or at least perversity, of spirit dictates that if he is not to avoid suffering, he must instead seek it out to relieve the suffering of others.

That path is a long one, and he travels it slowly, wishing to be very sure of his commitment before he reaches the end. Contracting—the business of being tortured in place of someone else—is not a thing to be undertaken casually.

First, research, in the form of several enlightening conversations with what might loosely be called the faculty. The distinction between contractors who teach and contractors who do not is unclear; everyone seems equally willing to offer advice and especially willing to offer warnings.

Then the auditing of several classes, in which he is by far the oldest body present. In all his years Downside he has torched exactly once; it seems that after a century or two on the job, a contractor will be made youthful by the number of times his body has been renewed. Naturally, he goes home and calculates as best he can just how many temporary deaths that would take. The figure stops him in his tracks for a week, but no one ever said this would be easy, and he has all the time under the cliffs.

His collection of musical instruments is growing. He teaches himself to play them, as a way of passing the time. This leads him to the study of music, which leads him to the peculiar observation that Downside seems to have by and large persisted on the cusp of the millenium for the past ten or fifteen thousand years, and incidentally to the realization that he ought to figure out this automated computing business one of these days. A year and a half later he looks up from debugging a sprawling mass of C code and observes, ruefully, that he has gotten distracted. The next day sees him back at the Crescent, learning, watching, struggling not to name himself a coward for doing no more than that.

This is not a happy equilibrium, but it is a stable one, and it could have held him for a very long time had it not been for Eight-Hour.

^

"There's someone I'd like you to meet," she says without preamble, catching him in the hall as he makes his escape after listening to her lecture on anatomy. Rumour has it she died before she was twenty-five. He can believe that, looking at her. "You got a minute?"

"I have several," he acknowledges, and is rewarded with a smile. It is an unremarkable smile, on an unremarkable face, attached to a woman who is to contracting what Sherlock Holmes was to solving crimes.

In this place, the slate of the body is cleaned too often to provide any hints about profession; behavioural clues must take up the slack. Eight-Hour does not behave like a contractor. She has the gruesome sense of humour, but she lacks the hint of weariness or resignation. Eight-Hour behaves like someone who genuinely and unreservedly loves her job.

As she leads him out of the building, she makes no particular effort either to hide or to reveal their destination. Only when they board the subway train does he finally conclude that she must be taking him to see Ensorra.

"You're a sharp one," Eight-Hour tells him when he mentions his hypothesis. "What do they call you?"

He shrugs. She laughs.

"I'll see if Sor' can come up with something," she offers. "You don't want me naming you. Just ask Chickpea."

Eight-Hour Chainsaw possesses a very arrogant brand of humility.

^

They reach Ensorra's studio—one of several—without his ever asking what prompted her to introduce the man who lurks at the back of her classrooms to the only person under the cliffs who might be more famous than she is. There are many reasons why he does not ask; chief among them is that he is not sure she knows the answer.

Ensorra greets them in French, laughing, taking Eight-Hour's hands in hers and standing on tiptoe to kiss her soundly on the lips. In that moment, he both understands and doubts the rumours about these two. Then she turns to him, and for the first time he experiences the effect of her presence in full force.

Although she is beautiful, it is not her beauty which occupies his attention so thoroughly. Although she is charismatic, it is not her charisma. Her magnetism seems almost impersonal; it is simply very difficult to look away from her, for no good reason that he can discern.

"You've done it again," says Eight-Hour with a laugh, and he blinks and disengages. Ensorra smiles with real innocence. "This is Ensorra," Eight-Hour adds, unnecessarily. "Sor', this is that guy I was telling you about."

Thusly announced, he raises his eyebrows, hoping for more information. Ensorra studies him for a few seconds. He looks away again, just to prove he can; she asks, in abstracted tones, "Classical?"

"I beg your pardon?"

The ladies share a remarkably similar grin. "Classical music," Ensorra clarifies. "You play an instrument, don't you?"

He admits as much with a nod. She smiles her not-quite-irresistible smile and says, "Come on in."

If he had expected anything from this meeting, he would have been disappointed. Certainly not a word is said about contracting. Ensorra introduces him to a veritable horde of musical instruments, each of which has a personal history which she is willing to discuss at great length. When they fall into a debate concerning the relative merits of various guitars, Eight-Hour absents herself so quietly that he comes close to missing the moment of her departure. It occurs to him that the two of them are opposites in that regard.

"She never told me your name," says Ensorra, glancing after her unobtrusive friend.

"Sherlock Holmes," he confesses.

Her smile is wryly commiserating. "I can see why you don't use it," she says, one celebrity to another.

"And I have not yet found a suitable replacement."

"I'll think about it." Eight-Hour never brought it up; perhaps, he thinks, she realized they would stumble across the subject on their own.

When he leaves, it is with two gifts: a guitar and a name. "A trifle extravagant, don't you think?" he asks. She grins and shoos him away with a flap of her hand.

"It suits you," she declares, of both name and namesake. "See you around, Strat."

^

The power of the Downside grapevine is incredible to behold. Within a month he is known by name, _that_ name, to nearly every student at the Crescent. He finds that while he wasn't looking he has slipped from merely attending classes into being a student himself. The difference has something to do with attitude.

On the list of prospective contractors applying for certification in his graduating year, half a decade after he met Ensorra and most of a century after he first set foot inside the Crescent, 2385443281^2 is one of only four residence codes from that district. The rest, about three dozen in all, are from ^1. ^0, of course, is not represented; anyone residing there has already been certified, although not necessarily as a contractor, and Dice appears to be the only person who has ever crossed the divide between those who give pain and those who take it.

Eight-Hour takes all thirty-nine of them out for drinks afterward. She makes no distinction between those who passed and those who failed. He appreciates the gesture, but it does little to console him. The bar of admittance to the ranks of professional torture victims is very low, and still he did not manage to clear it. He wakes up the next morning with no hangover, having expired of alcohol poisoning during the night.

While he launders his vomit-stained sheets, he reminds himself of two things. One, he really ought to torch himself before passing out in his bed the next time he gets so thoroughly intoxicated. Two, as he told himself seventy-five years ago, no one ever said this would be easy. He resolves to find Eight-Hour and, much as he loathes to humble himself in such a fashion, ask her advice.

^

He does not find Eight-Hour.

He finds Ensorra instead, curled up on a couch in one of Eight-Hour's multitude of living rooms, drinking hot chocolate and looking lost in thought. When he turns to leave, feeling very much the intruder, she laughs and calls him back. "Going somewhere, Strat? C'mere and sit with me."

Obediently, he goes there and sits. Ensorra regards him with steady eyes.

"I used to contract," she says, "twelve thousand ago, give or take."

Stratocaster makes the calculation in his head. "Before Eight-Hour?"

Ensorra smiles with the distance of nostalgia. "She came down just as I was retiring. I went into music, and she went into the Crescent." Mischievously, she adds, "I named her Dreamer."

Knowing something of Ensorra's tastes, he raises his eyebrows. "After a song, no doubt."

"Supertramp," she admits. "Actually, it was Eights who got me into twentieth century rock. So in a way you can blame her for your name."

"I quite like my name," he says, echoing her smile. "I have been told it suits me."

A grin flickers across her face, gone as quickly as it appeared and taking her smile with it. "So you're here to ask Eights how to contract," she guesses, more soberly. "Don't bother."

"Why not?"

"She doesn't know," Ensorra explains. "She just does it."

He thinks about the classes Eight-Hour teaches at the Crescent. Detailed lectures on what hurts, where, how, and why; explanations of the ranking system for torturers, and how a contractor will be expected to assess those rankings; not a word about the psychology of the job, except to say that every contractor retires eventually, one way or another. Every contractor but one.

"I see," he says, beginning to stand up. "I believe you must be speaking to the greatest idiot under the cliffs. I'll be going now."

She puts a hand on his arm. "Sit," she instructs. "She would've just sent you to me anyway."

"After twelve thousand years...?"

"Trust me," Ensorra tells him, "after twelve thousand years, I remember _damn_ well why I quit."

The logic of the statement appears to be sound. Once again, Stratocaster sits.

"So tell me what went wrong," she prompts.

He does not quite succeed at hiding his wince.

^

The torturer's—Dice's—fingers are dark against the pale wood of the table. His left thumbnail is slightly ragged at one corner, as though he nibbled on it in a moment of distraction. He lifts his hands and gestures, politely, for Stratocaster to lie down.

Before Dice, it is said, there was no certification for contracting. The Crescent took anyone who was willing to join, and the only test was whether or not you made it through your first contract, and then your second, your third, et cetera. If you want to get technical, it is said, there still isn't; anyone who wants to take a contract can do so, certified or not. People still go through the Crescent, because it's easier, and because the advantage—it is said—to having a torturer-contractor vetting the candidates is that he can weed out the ones who would've broken in their first century anyway.

If that train of thought was supposed to distract him from his nervousness while Dice straps him to the table, it worked only in the most immediate sense. He is still nervous, only now he is nervous and immobile, and thinking about failure as well as thinking about pain. This, he is given to understand, is known as doing the torturers' work for them. His lips twitch at the thought, forming not so much a smile as a small, amused grimace.

Dice waits. It is said that the reason this man earned a title, the highest rank a torturer can achieve, is because he cares; it is said that his genuine compassion is what makes a contract with him that much worse. The rumours, Strat decides, don't know the half of it.

He is no stranger to pain. His occasional bouts as an amateur prizefighter—more or less occasional, at any rate—acquainted him with it thoroughly enough. There is, however, a world of difference between taking a blow in the heat of a fight and waiting breathless on a cold wooden table for the moment when your torturer will decide to start hurting you.

This moment is not it. Neither is the following moment, nor the one after that. It takes Stratocaster a long time to relax, or at least, he thinks it is a long time. He expects that the pain will come once he has resigned himself, and as the last of his nervous tension drains away, he waits.

When he stops expecting, the transition is much subtler, but somehow he knows that Dice will not miss it. Strat closes his eyes, takes a long breath, and lets it out slowly. He feels almost peaceful. The fear is not gone, but its presence is a kind of comfort to him. This, he thinks at some distance, is what a contractor is supposed to be.

With an exquisite sense of timing, Dice refrains from hurting him at that point. Stratocaster is permitted his tiny interval of calm, long enough that he stops trying to count the seconds. The pain, when it arrives at last, is bright and hot and hard, and for the length of one agonized breath he cannot identify what is happening to him. Awareness returns slowly. That is truly terrifying, more so than the rich scent of blood or the sight of his ribs laid bare by Dice's knife.

It is said that a contractor should let go—let it happen. Surrender. He doesn't; he can't. When the knife comes down to carve away another slice, the scrape of blade on bone fills his perceptions to overflowing, so intensely and disproportionately loud that he cannot hear himself scream.

^

"I..." He shakes his head.

"It's okay," she says, understanding. "Come visit me sometime, all right? Don't be a stranger. We'll talk about it when you're ready."

If Stratocaster believed in magic, perhaps he would try to use it to summon up a smile. Short of that, however, he only stands again. Ensorra squeezes his arm once, then lets go.

"What's your res code?" Her smile is bright, gentle, as though to make up for the absence of his. "So I can call you."

"Two three eight five four four three two eight one," he answers, "caret two. That's two hundred and twenty-one to the fourth power, which has always struck me as a remarkable coincidence."

Ensorra laughs softly. "_Some_body Upside must have a sense of humour, I guess."

"So it would appear."

"Take care," she says as he turns away.

He leaves in silence.


End file.
